Assault Of The Onions

By Ashwath Ramesh

Clad in pink, partly purple plain,

Round about, in layers lightly lain,

Aroma so fresh, a tight tangy train,

Belying their might, an assault of pain;

There they lie, pink balls on white,

Caressing the knife, their shorn plight,

Awaiting translucence, their oily blight,

Belying their might, a spike in sight;

Beneath a layer, they hide their edge,

The first cut, out comes the wedge,

Carried on vapour, a stinging hedge,

They show their might, make me sledge;

Desire of the tongue, the layer of waste,

Urges me to cut, shear and grind to paste,

But eyes burn, fingers in danger of haste,

Which shall prevail, in this kitchen chaste...

Assault of the onions, or my wish for taste?

By Ashwath Ramesh